Devil Take The Hindmost - A Two-Part Love Never Dies Narration
by WanderlustAlto
Summary: A two-part narration of "Why Does She Love Me" and "Devil Take The Hindmost" from Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical Love Never Dies, the sequel to The Phantom of the Opera. Contains book and musical references, as well as LND plot spoilers. Australian cast, told from Raoul's POV. I'm on Erik's side, but LND Raoul is such an intriguing character it'd be a shame not to tell it so.


_**[A dark, gloomy bar on Coney Island, 1907.]**_

"One more," drawled a disheveled-looking man, knocking back his latest amber dregs. As he clumsily plunked down his empty liquor glass on the greasy bar, the normally friendly bartender sighed irritably.

"Oh, come on, buddy, don't you think you've had enough?" said the bartender. "It's practically morning already!"

"One more, I said!" the disheveled man replied, more sharply this time. Between the bourbon and his thick French accent (not to mention that his English tutor had clearly been British), he had grown nearly unintelligible in the last few hours.

The weary bartender sighed again. "All right, all right. My shift is over anyway, so let's settle the bill, okay?" As he poured about a mouthful into the glass, the Frenchman reluctantly tossed a careless, pathetically small handful of random change on the bar, not even deigning to look at the bartender, and leaned back on his stool, eyes unfocused and melancholy.

"Jeez, you're in a bad way, ain't ya?" The bartender glanced reproachfully at the change, then at the highly intoxicated Frenchman. "Worse than most who end up here." As he debated whether or not to throw him out, the back door clicked open.

"Well, here's the morning shift," he told the man. "Maybe _he'll_ know what to do with ya." As he left, his replacement began polishing glasses exactly where the other had left off, not even taking notice of the singular man at the bar.

"Yes," slurred the Frenchman quietly, scratching his chin, "yes, 'what to do' with me? That's the question, isn't it?" He chuckled bitterly to himself, and his distant eyes became even more melancholy. "That's _always _been the question. Ever since the beginning."

Had the new bartender known who this gloomy man was, perhaps he would have marveled more at the man's desolate state. Indeed, he was no ordinary Frenchman - his family had once been well-respected throughout all of France, perhaps even Europe. That is, before he came along. The inebriated man was none other than Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. Had the new bartender known the viscount ten years prior, he would never imagine that the man sitting before him now was one and the same.

Ten years ago, Raoul de Chagny had been young, happy, full of dreams, and hopelessly in love with his childhood sweetheart, the Swedish opera singer Christine Daaé. Ten years ago, he would have given anything to marry Christine, have children, and travel the world to suit his beautiful wife's operatic career. And of course, they would come back to France every now and again to be with his beloved older brother, Count Philippe. But in that first year, the vicomte's persistent naïveté was finally shattered, and though his life's dreams came true, the next nine years were not happy ones. In those ten long years, Raoul de Chagny had come undone, and every day brought still more unhappiness.

Tonight had begun as many of his nights had begun in those ten years, though the geographic location was a bit different. After a long day of holding together his hollow marriage and attempting to parent strange, free-spirited Gustave, the Vicomte de Chagny had stormed down to the most remote, least-populated bar he could find as the sun set. If he was lucky, he made it inside before it was completely dark out. For at night, his long-suppressed memories ran rampant.

The first glass of bourbon was to burn away the pain of that day's responsibilities.

The second was to erase his guilt about gambling his family fortune away in Monte Carlo, and his guilt about using Christine's well-earned money to keep paying for his vice. He welcomed the liquor's mounting fog.

Somewhere around the third glass, memories of that horrible, terrible night ten years ago began surfacing. Each burning sip, each fiery trickle tracing down his throat, awoke another memory. Drinking to forget is a cruel paradox, for in order to forget something, one must first remember it. And once you remember something, it is much harder to forget another time, so you swallow more. On and on, always in vain, but what else could he do?

This sip was for the fear he'd felt when Christine had been made to perform once more in the Phantom's none-too-subtle opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_.

This sip was for the moment when Christine disappeared into thin air, for the screams of innocent spectators as the priceless chandelier crushed them, incinerating the beautiful opera house and killing nearly everyone in it.

This sip was for the dread-filled descent into the Phantom's lair with the Persian daroga.

An entire glass to recall and forget the nightmarish torture-chamber and his near-drowning. _"Barrels! Barrels! Any barrels to sell?..."_

Another full glass for his dead Philippe.

Finally, Raoul reached the true source of his fear, the real reason why he spent every night getting drunk in grimy barrooms: the Phantom, Erik. Though he would never admit it to anyone, perhaps not even to himself, Erik absolutely terrified him, even to this day. Erik was every child's fear of the dark personified - a face like Death's, the ability to bend shadow to create new psychological horrors, the illusion of omnipresence in sight and voice, and so utterly brilliant he was nearly mad. Raoul sometimes still saw the Phantom's horrible face in his mind. Though that night grew further and further off in time, his fear worsened as his mind invented new terrors to replace the details time had erased. Coming to Coney Island had been a mistake; the garish lights and creeping shadows reminded him once again of the Palais Garnier and the dark events he'd witnessed within. When Madame Giry informed him that it was none other than Erik himself who had summoned the de Chagnys, a hard blow had been dealt to his already-weakened world. It would seem that the old Phantom was determined to make his life a living hell. _Mon Dieu, _would he ever truly escape Erik's clutches?

The broken vicomte drank more deeply still.

He could hardly sit straight on his stool by now, and the bar's dreary interior swam before his clouded blue eyes. But the memories hadn't run out yet.

As he quaffed his sixth - or was it seventh? - bourbon, Raoul recalled the strange dynamic between Christine and the Phantom in those long-ago days. He knew that Erik had been madly in love with Christine, and had even posed as Papa Daaé's "Angel of Music" for a while and refined her incredible vocal talent before abruptly revealing his identity, his face, and his madness. Though Christine had told the vicomte of her initial terror, some part of her still seemed irresistibly drawn to the mysterious Phantom. He had never been truly sure where her loyalties had lain until that fatal night in Erik's lair, the night of Christine's awful choice. Even then, he was rather unsure. With a shudder, he remembered the sensation of Erik's lasso around his neck and the water at his feet. He remembered the all-too-passionate kiss she and the monster had shared before his very eyes, the kiss that somehow saved his life.

The vicomte let out a drunken laugh. As if his current hellish existence was worth saving. He was in shambles. Swaying on his stool, he caught a blurred glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. Staring back at him was a man he barely recognized - his fair hair was darker and unkempt, his eyes were glassy and despairing with dark circles under them, his once clean-shaven chin was stubbly, and his face was flushed deep red with liquor. To think that he had once been a nobleman was laughable. He had been young and brave, bold enough to do anything in the name of his unrequited love for Christine. Now he sat alone in a dirty American bar, drinking to alleviate his all-consuming fear of a madman he hadn't seen in ten years. Raoul de Chagny had become utterly pathetic, and he knew it all too well.

Thinking of Christine reminded him of a more present problem: his marriage. After the Phantom let them go free, they had married almost immediately. For a while, the beautiful, amorous daze of marriage had overtaken them both, and the horrors of the opera cellar had been swept away like they were nothing more than a bad dream. But as the thrill of being newlyweds wore off, their relationship was only lukewarm, and growing more distant each day. Christine's pregnancy and the birth of Gustave brought momentary light and warmth back to Raoul's life, but that, too, wore off. Christine suddenly seemed more distant and distracted than ever, and as Gustave grew older, the vicomte realized just how different he and his young son were. Sometimes Gustave seemed alien to him, and no matter how hard he tried, Raoul couldn't connect at all, though poor young Gustave still loved him dearly. He constantly felt estranged from both his wife and his son, like they were part of something he could never be. He began drinking, slowly at first; a mouthful here, a glass or so there - whatever it took to dull the misery. He found himself becoming increasingly annoyed with Gustave's incessant pestering. Gustave's dark imagination and love of music reminded Raoul of that accursed Phantom, making more memories surface. His fights with Christine grew more and more frequent. Thus the Vicomte de Chagny slipped closer and closer toward oblivion.

What a damned, lovesick fool he'd been marrying her.

By this point in his nightly drinking routine, if he hadn't passed out yet, he would drag himself upright and stagger unsteadily home beneath the moonless sky, praying that he would make it all the way back so Christine wouldn't have to come pick him up off the street in the morning. This morning, however, he wanted nothing more than to wallow in his shallow, drunken stupor.

Lost in a reverie, he began to speak aloud in English. Whether it was to the bartender or more to himself, he wasn't sure anymore, but talking helped him sort through his self-pity.

"She looks for sympathy, and I give her nothing but sorrow. She asks for honesty, but I've none to spare. Hell, I'm not sure I know the meaning of the word anymore."

The bartender cast the despondent man a judgemental sidelong glance, then kept polishing glasses, but Raoul didn't care. He kept right on talking, although his words were slurred and his European accent was thicker than ever.

"She needs my tender kiss, and practically has to _beg _it of me. I give her nothing but ugliness." Then, more softly, he asked, "Why does she love me?"

No answer, but he hadn't been expecting one. He was on a roll now. Taking another deep draught of bourbon, he continued.

"She yearns for higher things, things I can't give her. I can't possibly deliver the rush that music brings her, and even when she sings and soars above me, I try to clip her wings." He blinked tears away, then asked again, more desperately, "Why does she love me?"

Raoul broke out of his pensive trance for a moment, and turned to face the bartender.

"One more drink, sir. That's what I need, don't you think, sir?" Then he turned away again, and in a deep voice full of bitter regret, he murmured a phrase that had an air of being thought many times to oneself, a phrase that seemed to have become his secret mantra: "Leave the hurt behind." He swigged the last dregs down and slid his glass over.

The bartender, who really had been listening, pointedly ignored the vicomte.

"Did you hear me? Another drink!" Raoul snapped. As his next bourbon was reluctantly being poured, he continued his monologue.

"She wants the man I was...husband and father...well, at least, she thinks she does. But to tell you the truth, monsieur, I was a beastly husband and an outright failure of a father!" His perfect, beloved Christine deserved far better than the likes of him.

Clumsily bringing his hands to his face, Raoul continued, "Beneath this mask I wear, there's nothing of me! No, just horror, shame, despair! Why does she love me?" _And why do those first words seem familiar? _he wondered vaguely. The vicomte's foggy mind came to a sudden realization, and his face looked stricken. _Mon Dieu,_ they were familiar because his old foe, the Phantom, had uttered nearly the same phrase all those years ago! Raoul had, in essence, become the very thing he feared most, and this revelation floored him. The room swirled around him, and for a moment he thought that perhaps he would finally pass out and, for a brief time, enter a peaceful realm free of responsibilities and haunting memories. However, the feeling passed, and he regained some scrap of composure.

"How 'bout you, sir?" he said in a broken voice. "Tell me, what am I to do, sir?" He sighed, staring listlessly at his glass. "Leave the hurt behind."

As he sat there numbly, lost to thought once again, the little bell over the front door chimed, shattering Raoul's solitude. He heard a cheery voice say, "Morning, Bernie, coffee please! Hurry up, it's freezing out there this morning! I'll just take it...black..." The cheery voice abruptly slowed down as its owner came in and caught sight of the man at the bar. Raoul, shamefaced when he saw who it was, leaned back in his stool and set his jaw.

"V-Vicomte...fancy meeting you here..." said the young woman, switching to her native French.

"Miss Giry," replied Raoul uncomfortably.

"Do you know where we are?" Meg asked, looking concerned and a bit embarrassed at interrupting what was obviously a personal moment.

"Hell, I imagine," retorted the vicomte.

"Drowning your sorrows, then, are you?"

Raoul lurched unsteadily to his feet, leaning on another stool to remain upright, and chuckled incoherently. "No, on the contrary! I'm celebrating a reunion with old friends." He gave Meg an almost scathing look, then muttered, "Friends I had long thought dead and buried." His melancholy turned to irritation. How dare the Girys and that demonic Phantom reappear from God knows where and disrupt his life now! As if he needed more pain.

"And you?" he echoed, sloppily gesturing to her with his half-empty glass.

"Me? I'm in for a swim," said Meg. "This town is coarse and cold and mean. It's hard to escape vice here. Here, you're just a face in the crowd...you're allowed to do anything."

Raoul drank deeply from his glass again. It was pointless to pretend he was even remotely sober.

Meg quirked up the corner of her mouth in a sad, knowing half-grin, though the vicomte couldn't tell if it was directed at him or at some private thought of hers. She rattled off a playful little rhyme: "And so I come at dawn each day, come to wash it all away." She sighed wistfully, but there was a hint of regret in her voice. "I sink into the sea...blue and cool and kind. I let it set me free; let the past unwind." She, too, had evidently had a rough ten years since that notorious winter in Paris. Then, in the same somber tone Raoul himself had used earlier, she murmured in English, "Leave the hurt behind."

Raoul blinked in surprise. "Miss Giry..." he said softly. He'd had no idea how much he and Meg had in common, aside from their shared pasts.

Meg shook her pretty blonde head and returned to French. "What do you think will happen, Vicomte? At the concert? Have you thought? When he hears her sing again...when she sings..."

The vicomte turned away, a hand in his unkempt hair, and staggered a few steps in the opposite direction to gather his dim thoughts. His voice was bitter and sardonic again when he replied, "Ah, Miss Giry, I wish I knew, but I'm afraid her music has always been somewhat of a _mystery _to me."

Meg, in classic Meg fashion, leaned forward eagerly and began speaking excitedly, as she had always done whenever something interesting or scandalous was going on. "But there's more to this than the music, monsieur! Believe me! I saw it! There's something I - " She stopped herself suddenly, and the vicomte immediately knew her mother had told her to keep silent about whatever it was. Meg had indeed suffered much those ten years, but some little quirks never die. "...oh, I don't know. Just take her away!" she said, her voice suddenly strained and on the verge of tears. "Now! For all our sakes."

She went back to rhyming, perhaps as an attempt at distraction. "Sail across the sea, put us out of mind." Then, Meg did something rather unexpected. She locked her flinty eyes with Raoul's blurry ones, allowing him to see the pain she kept hidden from the world, and closed the space between them. She reached out a delicate hand and laid in on his reddened, stubbly cheeks, and continued her rhyme in suddenly coquettish tones. "Close your eyes and flee...let yourself stay blind." Meg peered up at him from under her thick eyelashes, sliding her hand over his eyes as he attempted to focus on it, then running her hand down his cheek.

About ten minutes ago, Meg's suggestion to get the hell out of Dodge would have sounded absolutely wonderful to the vicomte, but now she had him intrigued. He grabbed her hand as she tried to sidle away.

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?!" he demanded, raising his voice angrily and enunciating his words a bit more clearly.

Meg's eyes widened, seeing that her distraction had failed, and she yanked her hand out of his grasp. "Trust me, monsieur! Don't let her sing! Once he gets into her soul, there's _nothing _she won't do for him!" she said in a strange, almost..._smug_ tone.

She bolted for the front door. "Leave this place behind." The front door slammed shut.

Raoul careened after her. "Miss Giry! MISS GIRY!"


End file.
